


The Long Song

by Kikimay



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Spoilers, The Time of the Doctor spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikimay/pseuds/Kikimay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It leaves you incredibly tired, the whole old age thing, but it makes you remember everything so vividly like you're breathing every moment again.” The Doctor still remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Song

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly I don't own the Eleventh Doctor or any of the other characters. I wish I would. All the characters belong to Steven Moffat, the BBC and whoever is in charge of the show. I just own a small idea and lots of feelings.
> 
>  
> 
> The title comes from the soundtrack of Season Seven. The quote at the beginning is taken from “Grey Room” by Damien Rice.
> 
>  
> 
> Please forgive any eventual mistake, the ficlet is unbetaed. I felt the strong urge to post something. Eleventh was the main reason I’m in the fandom in the first place, so I needed to say goodbye to him.

 

 

 

 

 

_Oh coz nothing is lost, it’s just frozen in frost_

 

 

 

 

It leaves you incredibly tired, the whole old age thing, but it makes you remember everything so vividly like you're breathing every moment again.

The first time it happens you’re sitting on the wooden chair they made for you – just for you, because you deserve it – You open your eyes and see her smiling mischievously. It amazes you.

“Oh. Hello,” you mutter ruggedly.

“Hello,” she whispers back. So softly and charmingly as your memory suggests.

You lift a wrinkly hand up and almost caress her blonde curls.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she says still smiling at you. And you realize that you can feel her. The softness of her skin, the curves of her lips and the sweet valley of her cheeks. The swelling consistence of her wrist bone still regenerating for your kiss.

“Are we fighting against the Weeping Angels?” you ask surprised.

“Yes, we are,” she says.

You sigh resting your heavy back against the chair. She gets a little closer and kisses your mouth. It tastes like rain and sea. It smells like antiradar coating of an old space suit.

You laugh.

“Is this how it works?”

She doesn’t answer and you close your eyes holding back a tear.

The oxygen erodes your lungs. It tires you to even unclench your lips. You feel yourself burn with fever and exhaustion while the explosions outside the room hurt your ears.

“Make them stop,” you beg brokenly.

She looks at you wide eyed. Impressed.

“You have to do that,” she answers holding your hand.

She’s still so young and beautiful like a promise. You smile and touch her long brown hair that smells like baked cookies.

There are kids behind her that you don’t recognize. You try to eye them properly but it makes your head grow heavier.

“Don’t weary yourself. I’m here,” she says.

“I know. Thank you,” you whisper back.

It breaks your heart the guilt you feel when it comes to her. You left her so many times in your memories.

“I know,” she replies to your unspoken fears.

You want to hug her, taste her good tea and let her save you.

“It will happen,” a familiar voice predicts. She’s the last – _the first_ – who comes to visit you. She wears so many dresses at once – a red jumper, a long white dress, a pyjamas, a kissogram costume – and still smells like the stinging insides of a space whale’s mouth, the musk of Rory’s shampoo and the appalling saltiness of fried bacon.

“I wish this was about fish fingers and custard!” you complain.

“It’s always about fish fingers and custard,” she replies wisely.

You close your eyes and take a painful breath. You will die soon without seeing her one last time. This awareness wounds you the most.

“Didn’t you learn anything about this?” They ask together, your women.

You open up your eyes and watch the light of the crack brightening the dark corners of the room. Every angle shines. A single tear wets your lips and hope clings into your bones.

“We will meet again,” you say consciously. “Finally, we will meet again. Cool. You were always so good to me.”

Wife. Granddaughter. _Mother._

_Friend._

You’ll never forget. You’ll take this long song with you.

 


End file.
